


Meat and Bone

by titC



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Dog - Freeform, Dorks, Friends being helpful, Humour, M/M, chatting, dating app, no really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 10:08:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23969608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/titC/pseuds/titC
Summary: David creates a dating app for fun, andtotallyunintentionally forgets to delete Frank's test profile. Oops?
Relationships: Frank Castle/Matt Murdock
Comments: 61
Kudos: 210
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Fratt Week, Marvel Fluff Bingo





	Meat and Bone

**Author's Note:**

> As always, many, many thanks for [PixelByPixel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pixelbypixel)'s invaluable beta!  
> For my Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt _Forgetting to eat_ and my Marvel Fluff Bingo prompt _Breakfast in bed_.  
> For the [FrattWeek](http://frattweek.tumblr.com/) 2 prompts _Bone_ and _Date_.

When David invited him for dinner two days ago, Frank didn’t expect to hear… that. What he's hearing now, after the kids were sent upstairs and the grownups got the real booze out.

“You what,” he says flatly.

“I found you a match?”

“Not that.” Well, also that, but it’s not the priority. “ _Everything else_.”

“Look, I didn't mean to keep your profile on it, all right? I just created some based on people I know, to test the app; I made one for Sarah and one for me, too.”

“And,” Sarah cuts in, “we matched.” They do the lovey-dovey eyes at each other and Frank grits his teeth.

“I just forgot to remove yours when it went live. Anyway, I didn’t think it would get so many sign-ups; I just coded it for fun!”

Fun, uh. Frank isn’t finding this _fun_ at all. “What did you use, pictures of me? My name?”

“Of course not! You’re _Pete_ , and I added some very flattering pictures where we can’t see your face.”

Frank thinks about it and decides he’s being insulted. “What’s wrong with my face?”

“It’s, uh.”

“It’s recognizable,” Sarah says.

“Nice save.”

She smirks at him. “We took a screencap from the security feed David had going on in your secret boys’ lair, and another one of you in a shirt with your toolbelt.” Her smile widens. “I chose them.”

He is _not_ going to blush, but also. “You still have that video feed?”

“Yeah, found it on an old hard drive when I emptied a – nevermind. Those pics are great, and the guy you matched with clearly has the same, uh, interests as you _and_ he’s big on privacy given his settings, so yeah. Download the app, chat him up, and report back; all right?”

“And if you don’t,” Sarah adds, “we’ll know.”

“And?”

“And the book club thing you got going on with Leo is canceled until you do. _And_ I’m not fixing your computer for you, ever again.”

“I hate you.”

“Sure, you do. Also, the app is called _Meat and Bone_.”

Sarah and David start giggling, and Frank knows he’s defeated.

Frank ruminates on the stupidity of what David’s done as he watches the station names come and go through the subway windows. What was he thinking? Frank isn’t looking for anything but laying low, going to work, gathering intel, and when the time is right hitting some assholes with his brand of Punisher retribution. He is going out about three nights a week, sometimes just for recon, sometimes for more. It’s all keeping him busy enough; he doesn’t need to date anyone. He doesn’t have time; he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t think he’s got it in him to go through this again, anyway. Maybe he could go for a one-night-stand, but he doesn’t need an app for that; at least he doesn’t think so. And anyway, he doesn’t care.

Still, as soon as he gets back to his small two-room apartment, he looks the app up – _Meat and Bone_ , what a stupid name – and installs it. He needs to know what info David’s put on it.

Soon enough, he’s entering the login and password David gave him and he’s in. _Pete_ is good with kids; he likes working out, exercise, fixing things, beer, coffee, classic rock and country music, and reading. The pictures don’t show his face, it’s true; but they definitely show… something else. The one from when he and David were in hiding out has him doing pull-ups with a cinder-block hanging on a chain tied to his waist. He’s not wearing a shirt and all the muscles in his back and shoulders are straining; it looks like it’s from a gay porn magazine.

The other picture isn’t much better; he’s facing away from the camera too and he’s wearing a tight tank top and a bright yellow helmet. You can see his hair is a bit longer too. The toolbelt is low on his hips, and it looks like he’s walking back to work. He remembers Sarah and Leo met him for lunch once, when he was working on the construction site up in Queens. Frank doesn’t think this screams _I like reading_ at all, but it certainly ticks other boxes.

No wonder he got matched with another guy; any self-respecting woman would think _this dude is trying too hard_.

With a sigh, Frank switches to his match. Mike, his profile says, likes working out, helping, audiobooks, arguing and debating, night walks, and going out with his friends for drinks. He’s also in Frank’s (well, Pete’s) age range, and they live within a one-mile radius of each other. You can’t see his face either; there’s one picture of him hitting a heavy bag in a no-frills gym that shows off his very nice arms, but the picture is taken from behind and hides his features. In the other photo, he’s wearing tight black cargo pants that showcase an ass that, Frank has to admit, is certainly an asset.

Maybe it’s the late hour, maybe it’s all the booze, maybe it’s David and Sarah’s threats – even if he doesn’t really believe them. Frank sets his profile as invisible to all except the guy, and sends _Sorry, didn't sign up myself, didn't mean to be on this thing_ just before going to bed.

_**2:27am  
**_ _Hi,_ Frank reads in the morning.  
 _No worries  
_ _Didn’t fill in my profile myself either  
_ _It was a friend  
_ _She said she was being helpful_

 _**2:58am  
**_ _So no need to follow through  
_ _Good luck with the app though_

Frank reads it again.

_You do like night walks then_

He watches the little orange dot after his message. If the guy was out and about at 3am, he probably isn’t going to answer at 8:30. The dot isn’t going to turn green anytime soon, if ever, so Frank gets up, brews some coffee, and starts planning tonight’s hit.

Frank’s phone dings as he’s making himself a sandwich.

 _**12:46pm  
**_ _Sorry went to mass  
_ _My phone was on mute so I missed your message  
_ _Yes I like night walks  
_ _The dark doesn’t bother me  
_ _You?_

Mass, uh? Frank is intrigued.

_You a Catholic?_

_Problem?_

_No_

_You ok with meeting guys on a dating app?_

_I’m not going to have religious freakouts about it if that’s what you mean  
_ _I’m too old for that_

Well, good.

 _I don’t mind the dark_ , Frank types. He does mind getting lectured by religious folks like the Mormon roommates two floors down, but they’ve learned to keep to themselves when they cross paths. Frank likes being left alone.

Mike doesn’t answer for a while, and Frank puts his phone aside to focus on tonight’s mission. Planning, checking his weapons, doing some recon of the area in the light of day; he’s too busy to think about anyone’s ass until the next morning.

The hit on the meth lab went well and Frank is feeling pretty good about himself when he gets back to his apartment. He doesn’t call it home; it’s just a place to crash, a place where he sleeps and eats. He doesn’t hate it, he just doesn’t have any particular feelings about it either way. It’s convenient, and the landlord lets everyone be. It’s fine by Frank.

He closes his door, starts dismantling his rifle, checks his weapons, cleans his knife, takes his vest off… it’s all routine. Soon enough, he’s showering and watching blood – not his – wash down the drain. He got them good, and they wouldn’t bother the neighborhood again. Or anyone. The adrenaline of the fight, the satisfaction of a mission gone right, the warm water… he’s hard. He thinks for a minute; should he do something about it? Does he _want_ to? He sighs. It’s past 2:30 and he’s got to be at work in 6 hours; he really just wants to sleep now.

He quickly rinses off and pats himself dry before getting in bed, finally. He picks up his phone to set the alarm and sees he’s got a new message from Mystery Mike.

 _ **8:32pm  
**_ _Do you have any music recommendations?  
Friend of mine’s birthday is coming up and he wants to learn about the classics  
_ _He grew up outside the US so he’d like to catch up  
_ _I don’t know who to ask I don’t know anyone who likes classic rock_

 _**11:06pm  
**_ _Never mind_

Frank sighs.

 _You out and about?_ he types.

The answer comes right away.

_Just got back home_

_Do you go out every night_

_Pretty much_

_Never get mugged?_

_No  
_ _I guess I don’t look like I carry cash_

Well, good for him. Still, Frank wonders how the guy never gets jumped.

_You punch them hard and good, too?_

There’s no answer for a few minutes; Frank scrolls through a news feed as he waits. Maybe the guy fell asleep?

_How do you know about that?_

What? It’s right there in the app; didn’t he check what pictures his friend put there?

_There’s that pic of you on your profile hitting a heavy bag_

_Oh yeah right  
_ _Sorry I’d forgotten about that  
_ _Well you know training isn’t the same as the real thing_

 _No  
_ _Nice arms btw_

_Thanks_

Mike doesn’t reciprocate the compliment, which is somewhat rude of him. Not that Frank is vain, but still; it would have been appreciated, but maybe Mike isn’t into the manly man looks Sarah and David picked out to sell him. Well, he’ll be able to tell them he tried, at least.

 _I’ll get back to you about your friend  
_ _Just look at what he already has and let me know  
_ _It’ll help  
_ _Gonna hit the hay now_

It was almost 3, after all.

 _Sure it’s late  
_ _Thanks  
_ _Good night_

Frank sent a moon crescent emoji before setting the alarm. _I got this_ , he thinks right before sleep takes him.

Mike reports his friend has only heard about Dolly Parton and Johnny Cash, so Frank sighs and starts a list of suggestions. Mike says he’s giving them a listen and comments; Frank ends up looking forward to his messages. He’s got crazy ears; he asks if Frank ever noticed someone sneezing on this or that track and when Frank plays the song again, sometimes he hears it too.

 _Thanks for all the tips  
_ _You have definitely expanded my horizons_

_Found something for your friend?_

_Yes  
_ _Thank you by the way_

_Lmk how it goes_

_Will do_

When Frank finishes Leo’s latest book he thinks maybe he could ask Mike for advice, too. Eye for an eye, rec for a rec kind of thing, plus if _he_ brings her something to read for once, she’ll be impressed. Probably. Maybe. Teenagers are hard to impress, but he’ll give it a try.

 _Hey_ he sends one afternoon as he’s riding the subway back to his apartment.

He doesn’t get an answer right away but he’s not overthinking it; the guy must have a life. He’s hinted at some sort of legal job in an office, but he’s kept it pretty vague. Frank feels Mike’s wary about sharing too much, and Frank’s okay with that. He’s the same, to be honest. He’s told Mike about working in construction because of the photos Sarah and David picked, but that’s about it. It’s like having a modern-day pen pal, an almost but not quite imaginary friend, someone he can chat with without pressure, someone he doesn’t really expect to meet. He doesn't even really want to, which is probably going counter to the goal of that app and David’s entire, transparent ‘I forgot to delete your profile’ scheme. They don’t even use the call function that David built in the app; calling someone feels too intrusive and the reality of a voice is too much. Too real.

Mike talks with _Pete_ , a regular guy with a regular job, not the Punisher. Not a vet, not a killer, not a man who lost everything. When they chat, he can be someone he couldn’t ever be outside of the phone screen. He knows; he’s tried. Now he works for a friend of Curt’s, who knows he’s a Marine and knows to give him jobs where he can work on his own most of the time; he also knows Frank doesn’t want to work full-time. So he calls Frank when he needs an extra pair of hands, when one of his men is down with the flu, or when they’re behind schedule; it pays the rent. It’s fine.

Mike, though, Mike is an actual regular guy. He goes to work, he goes to the gym, he goes to church, he’s got friends and colleagues, and he’s probably chatting up other guys on that app; he wouldn’t have kept using it just for Frank.

 _**7:12pm  
**_ _Hey_

Frank looks at the screen. It’s not too late; he’s got time to have a quick dinner before going for a recon of the drug dealers’ warehouse he’s had his eye on for a while now. He can make time for a chat.

 _So I just finished the book I was reading  
_ _Wondering if you had any recs_

 _Maybe?  
_ _I don’t have a lot of time for books these days  
_ _What are you looking for_

Good question.

 _Nothing about war and death,_ he says. He’s got enough of that, and he doesn’t want to traumatize Leo anyway. David would have his balls, so. No.

 _I’m not really into sci-fi or elves either._ Leo is, but Frank refuses to suffer through space battles and pointy-eared assholes.

 _OK  
_ _I’m going to the gym  
_ _I’ll check my collection and get back to you afterward_

 _OK  
_ _Go hit that bag then_

_Will do_

Mike takes two days to answer. Not that Frank is impatient, but he wasn’t that long to give his music recs, was he? So.

But then, his phone pings.

 _Sorry  
_ _Had to wrap up a work thing and didn’t get back to you as quickly as I should have_

_It’s fine_

_Right  
_ _So it’s called good omens  
_ _Don’t trust the blurb it’s pretty funny and not apocalyptic doom_

Frank looks up the title on his phone; there’s apparently a radio show and a TV series, too.

 _I could just watch the TV version  
_ _Any good?_

 _The book yes  
_ _Haven’t watched the show_

 _OK  
_ _I’ll give it a try_

They chat a bit more; Mike says his friend liked the music he got for him and Frank tells him about the dog that wandered on the site he’s working at, a big house someone’s having redone. It’s some sort of mixed breed, with a bent tail that looks like it was broken and didn’t heal right. The pup still wagged it like crazy when Frank gave it the ham in his sandwich, and he hopes he’ll see it again. Frank likes dogs, and this one looked like it was on its own. When he finished for the day it had left the grounds, but maybe tomorrow it’ll come back.

_I’ll send you a pic_

_Let me know if you bring it back home_

_I’m not getting a dog_

_Sure  
_ _I believe you_

Frank has the distinct feeling he is being mocked, but he lets it go.

He’s got a job tonight, and he’s got to prepare.

He gets the book and reads it, and he enjoys it. Mike tells him a priest recommended it to him long ago, which Frank finds particularly amusing. When he takes it to the Liebermans’, Leo’s surprised but happy he’s the one to bring her a book this time, and Sarah and David keep teasing him about ‘the boyfriend.’

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“But you’re texting each other, right?”

“Are you sexting, too?” Leo asks.

All eyes turn to her.

“How do you know about that?” David asks.

“I’m 14, not dumb.”

“Did anyone ask you – ”

“Daaaad! No one asked me; I just, you know, am not stupid.”

“I know what sexting is too,” her brother adds.

Jesus, _kids_. “Anyway,” Frank cuts in. “We’re just chatting. He recced that book and I liked it, so. Here you go.”

All through dinner, they try to learn more about Mike, but Frank doesn’t have much to say. No they haven’t met, no they’re not planning to, no he doesn't have any more pictures. And no, he’s not interested in more than chatting; how could he want anything else when he’s never even met the guy? He doesn't know what his face looks like, for fuck’s sake.

As he leaves, Sarah looks a bit disappointed, but she rallies when David points out that it’s only been what, three weeks?

“So hey, getting to know each other, that’s good.”

“Yeah, you’re right. ‘Hi, I made headlines when I killed a bunch of assholes who got my wife and kids dead. Want to grab a coffee?’ That’s gonna go down great.”

“Well, maybe don’t lead with that?”

“As you said, it’s been three weeks. It’s fine that way.”

“You could still look up other profiles; a one-night-stand doesn’t need to know your life story,” Sarah says.

Frank shakes his head; she’s relentless about him getting a lover. She thinks he’s lonely, that after being someone’s _husband_ his whole adult life he can’t not want that again. But she’s wrong; it’s exactly the opposite. He knows how these things end, now. He’s not doing it again. “I’ll let you know, all right?”

“You better,” she replies with a wink.

“The wife’s drunk,” Frank tells David, and then he’s off. He’s pretty sure they’re going to have giggly sex right now, and he’s not in the mood to think about that. It makes him miss Maria too much, and he just – he can’t.

The subway car he gets in is empty and he sits in the middle of a row, spreads his legs wide and takes all the space he can, just because he can.

Then his phone buzzes in his pocket and when he gets it out he almost drops it.

Mike is calling him. It can’t be good; it’s 2:12am. He taps the green Reply button.

“Yeah?” There’s only a raspy sound on the other end. “Mike?”

Silence, then, _“Hey.”_

“Mike, talk to me. Are you okay?”

Something that wants to be a laugh freezes Frank’s blood in his veins.

“Mike, where are you?” Did he get mugged, after all? He’s an office worker, not a soldier; as he said, hitting a bag at the gym was nothing like fighting for your life.

“ _Wh… uh.”_ More painful-sounding breaths, then, _“Home. I think.”_

“I don’t know where you live. Tell me where you are, yeah? Talk to me.”

A faint _“Yeah,”_ and then nothing.

Fuck. What should Frank do? Go back to David, ask him to trace the call, find Mike? Is that even possible? David said he’d made sure his app couldn’t be used to trace people, that he had, in fact, developed it that way as a challenge. But it was _his_ app, maybe he could still…?

“Hey, you still here? Mike?”

The line is still open, but Mike isn’t answering. Frank gets out of the car at the next station and looks up at the screens, and the next train back to David's isn't soon enough. Maybe he can get out of the station, hijack a car…

Then there’s some noises he can’t quite identify, and Mike says, _“Claire.”_

“ _Aren’t you glad I kept the same number,”_ a woman says. _“Hey, who’re you calling?”_

“ _Claire?”_

“ _Nope, not calling me.”_

Then the line cuts.

Frank looks at his phone. Mike isn't alone, at least. There’s someone with him, someone who’s going to make sure he doesn't die. He really sounded like he was dying, just then. At least Frank doesn’t have to go back to David now. He’s not that far from his own apartment so he decides to walk there instead of waiting for yet another train, and he wonders who this Claire is. A friend? A lover?

It doesn’t matter.

Before setting his alarm though, he types a message, a simple,

_You OK?_

He hesitates, then hits send. Frank’s not being jealous; he’s being _friendly_. Concerned.

He’s not sure Sarah would agree, but she’s not here to roll her eyes at him.

He doesn’t get an answer until late the next day; he’s eating takeout in front of the TV and enjoying a quiet evening on his couch, for once.

 _**8:47pm  
**_ _Hi  
_ _Yeah I’m fine  
_ _Why do you ask_

_Because you called me last night and you sounded bad_

The little dot next to his message turns green quickly, but Mike takes his time to reply.

 _Oh  
_ _Sorry about that  
_ _Must have hit the wrong number_

Well, Mike doesn’t have his number; he just had somehow ended on the app.

 _What happened?  
_ _You got mugged?_

_Yeah I guess_

He… guesses? What the fuck, man?

_Did you get a good look at them?_

Frank thinks maybe if he could find them, he could teach them a good, permanent lesson about not attacking people just walking around. That’s what he’s good at, after all. Not much else, these days.

 _No sorry  
_ _It was dark_

_They didn’t take your phone at least_

_I’d left it at home  
_ _I don’t take it at night_

Well, at least he managed to get home before calling someone.

_How bad are you hurt then?_

_I’ll live  
_ _Some cuts few cracked ribs  
_ _No big deal_

No big deal? For a civilian, it sure was.

_Did you go to a hospital?_

_No  
_ _Called a nurse friend  
_ _She came and sewed me back up together  
_ _I’m fine really_

 _That nurse friend  
_ _Claire?  
_ _You said her name_

_Yes_

Well, Frank is glad Mike was better, but his flippancy about getting injured is… worrying. He’s a paper-pusher, not a fucking Marine.

_Guess you’ll be more careful at night now_

_Yeah  
_ _I didn’t pay enough attention  
_ _It’s my fault I was careless_

_Well just rest and recuperate right?_

Frank looks at the little dots blinking on the screen; Mike is typing something. But then after a couple minutes nothing comes and the dots disappears; maybe he’s asleep now.

_Maybe you’ll have time to watch that TV show then while you’re staying home_

_Well I’ve got to go to work on Monday  
_ _Can’t let my partner down_

_Don’t you have one of those fancy jobs where you can take sick days?_

_I’m not sick  
_ _I’ll be fine_

Frank isn’t quite reassured but at least Mike’s keeping up with their conversation, so that’s something. It’s kind of strange to feel concern for someone he doesn’t really know, who could just as well be someone he’s made up in his fucked-up head. Maybe Frank’s gone round the bend; maybe he’s lost it and he’s making it all up. He’s never met the guy, after all. Does he really exist? Or maybe it’s really David and Sarah pranking him or trying to be helpful or whatever. They keep telling him to make new friends, to meet people, to not just be Frank Castle, the Punisher. They say a job where he doesn’t really talk to anyone doesn’t count, which Frank disagrees with but he can’t really convince them. He’s stopped trying, anyway.

 _What about you  
_ _How are you doing_

_No broken bone so better than you_

_Hey_

Frank smiles.

 _I’m eating takeout from a place near the docks  
_ _Best kung pao chicken in the city_

 _What is it called_ _?  
_ _Maybe I know it_

 _Don’t know the name  
_ _It’s the one with the collection of lucky cats in the window_

 _Ah OK  
_ _Doesn’t ring a bell but I’ll ask around  
_ _Well enjoy your dinner_

That sounds a bit like Mike’s ending their conversation, so Frank just types,

 _Thanks  
_ _You too_

and leaves it at that. Guy probably needs to rest, anyway.

It won’t be their last chat about their favorite food places; it turns out Mike’s basically hit all the takeout places in Hell’s Kitchen and has opinions on each of them. Extremely precise, itemized opinions that Frank doesn’t find amusing at all.

“You should meet him,” Curt tells him the next time they go get a beer together. “That’s what that app is for, right? It’s even in the name.”

Sort of. “Don’t need to.”

“You could make sure he’s still in one piece, and check out those arms in person.” Curt squints at the screen. “I mean, I’m not into guys, but he does look fine.”

“I’m not looking to meet anyone.”

“And yet you’re still chatting.” Curt drains his beer and looks him up. “Frank, you’re not dead. Live a little, all right?”

“I don’t want to meet anyone new.”

“What about boning them?”

Frank almost chokes on his own beer. “I’m good.”

“Right. Banging on plumbing by day, shooting up mobsters by night. That’s not a life, Frank. There's more to it.”

“Yeah, well. Mike got mugged, so I guess I can’t stop doing what I’m doing. I got my job cut out for me.”

“You don’t usually go after muggers though, do you? That’s more what… shit, forgot their names. That woman who’s real strong, the guy with the horns, you know who I mean.”

“I guess they can’t be everywhere.”

“Just let the police do their job, Frank. Take some time for yourself; you can have a future.”

“That the speech you give your vets group?”

“Well, clearly you need to hear it too.”

Frank shrugs and goes to get them some more beers. His life is fine as it is. “So how about that girlfriend you had, Anissa? That her name?”

“That was pretty subtle, Frank.” Curt gives him a pretty good side-eye but goes along with it. “We’re doing real good,” he says, and Frank listens.

He just doesn’t want to talk about himself. What is there to say anyway?

_**10:47pm  
**_ _Hey so I’m hijacking my friend’s phone here but  
_ _Would you like to meet?  
_ _Him I mean not me  
_ _I’m great but I think he’s into you and it would be a shitty move to steal his love hunk_

The fuck? Also, his _love hunk?_

_He’s not going to be your friend for long if you’re using his phone_

_Well we’re drunk  
_ _Also he forgave me for adding his profile to this thing so  
_ _Shit he’s  
_ _No he stopped at the bar  
_ _Just ask him out_

Frank looks at the messages. Mike’s friends are the intrusive kind, looks like. He puts his phone back in his jacket and resumes his surveillance; he’s not expecting Joe Streccia to show up so early but he’s still got a job to do. Turk’s intel is usually good when he’s given the right incentive to tell the truth, and Streccia’s business is not the kind that should be allowed to thrive.

What the Punisher does matters, everything else doesn’t. And really, he should put an end to this whole Mike business; there’s no point to it. It’s not going to go anywhere, and Frank can’t be anyone’s… boyfriend. Or side dish, even. He’s not that kind of guy anymore, and it’s not fair to Mike.

Right?

But when Frank gets back to his apartment, he’s got a new message.

 _**1:59am  
**_ _My friend said she’d messaged you  
_ _Just ignore it  
_ _We were celebrating a work thing and we all were pretty drunk  
_ _Sorry about that_

It’s three-thirty and Frank hopes the guy’s asleep and not getting mugged again somewhere, but he still replies now before he talks himself again into cutting all ties off.

 _It’s fine  
_ _Guess you’re recovered from your mugging then_

Of course, Mike doesn’t answer. That’s good. Frank switches his bedside lamp off and closes his eyes. It’s late and he’s not a teenage girl with a crush.

The next day, there’s no answer. Well, Frank didn’t really ask a question, so he’s not really expecting a reply; it’s fine.

He goes to work, gets coffee and a bagel on the way, and does indeed bang on plumbing for a few hours. As he does, he thinks on what Curt said, on what Sarah and David keep nudging him toward. He thinks about the message from Mike’s friend, and about how he doesn’t even know what the guy looks like. He remembers that with Maria, it was just… boom. He saw her, and he was gone. Game over. She had him hook, line, and sinker, and he never questioned it. But that’s not what Curt or David says he should be looking for, not what they want for him. It’s less than that, and it’s more too. _Live_ , they say. As if that was easy.

So after work, he goes talk to Maria.

 _Frank,_ he remembers her saying. _You’re here now; we’re here now. Why not just enjoy the moment? You’ll leave again soon enough._

But he’d wanted to tell her he might never return, and to make plans, and to tell her it was okay. That if he never came back, she was still the best thing to ever happen to him, and that he wanted her to – shit. He’d said, “Tell me you’ll go on living, yeah? If I die out there, find a better and prettier guy than me.”

She’d replied she liked his broken mug and would always like it, and maybe after checking the kids were still playing outside they’d taken a tumble on the neatly-made bed. It hadn't been so neat afterward, but she’d smiled at him like a cat that got the canary and he’d felt like the king of the world.

“I miss you,” he tells the cold stone. Her name is etched on it, and it’s all that’s left of her. Of their family.

He even misses their fights, when she’d ask him to leave the Marines for _them_ , when she’d say she couldn't do it anymore, that she couldn't carry it all anymore. He wouldn't make promises, and sometimes in the dark of night she’d tell him she’d seen it from the start – that he’d never really leave. The Marines had given the violence in him purpose and method, but what he was carrying inside, the need to fight the world into compliance and then water it with blood… that would never leave. He went to war and he came back with it, except it had already been there, deep inside him. The Marines had just made it bloom. And Maria, she’d known. She’d loved him anyway. And if they’d expected it would take him before her, well, they’d been wrong, but what they’d decided still stands.

 _Live_ , right?

He leans back against her name and lets the cold seep through his clothes to his skin. It’s not like touching her, but he likes to think they’re touching anyway.

“Okay,” he says. “You’re always right, anyway.”

He takes his phone out and, before he chickens out, types:

_You busy tomorrow after_

He deletes it and starts again.

_Coffee Wednesday?_

No.

_I want_

Fuck, how can he hit casual yet not almost rude? He lets his head fall back against the gravestone. Maria had good people skills; he’d never really cared for the niceties. What would she say?

 _You gave me good advice for that book  
_ _I’m looking for a good coffee place near Midtown  
_ _Any rec?_

And then he leaves the cemetery.

_**6:37pm  
**_ _There’s a coffee and bakery on 46th  
_ _French Press n Bake_

_Sounds fancy_

_Not really  
_ _The name is fancier than the atmosphere  
_ _they have great shortbread_

_You like shortbread?_

_Love it_

_What about coffee tomorrow_

Mike doesn’t answer for a while. Frank rereads the messages, wonders if he’s been too forward. Fuck, he’s never really done this, the whole flirting thing. Well, not since he was, like, 20. It’s different now.

 _We don’t have to  
_ _My friend was drunk_

_I want to_

Frank waits, then adds:

_If you want to_

Is this a date? Do you date, when you’re looking at forty? Should he tell Mike it doesn’t have to be a date? Because it’s not –

 _OK  
_ _2 a good time for you?_

Well, yeah. He’s off work tomorrow.

_It’s fine_

What enthusiasm, he thinks once he sees his own words on the screen. Too late, he's already sent them.

 _I’ll be wearing glasses  
_ _They’re red_

Red glasses? Is Mike a fucking hipster? Frank hopes not.

_I’ll send you a picture_

_OK  
_ _Just let me know what you’ll be wearing too  
_ _It’s easier_

Easier? He’s not going to sit with his back to the door, but then again he doesn’t want to start telling Mike about being a Marine or worse. Not right now, anyway.

 _Sure  
_ _See you then_

 _Yes  
_ _Looking forward_

And now Frank – well, Pete – has a date.

He doesn't know if it’s going to be any good, but at least it’ll make Sarah happy.

* * *

“Couldn’t you have told him to send a picture?”

“I’m blind, Foggy, remember?”

“Well yeah, but I’m not. Leather jacket and jeans, could be anyone!”

Matt lets Foggy grumble; Pete did send a picture but he doesn’t want Foggy to see it. He doesn’t want his opinion before he can sense Pete himself; he wants to get to know him on his own. Of course, he’ll get a pretty good idea of what Foggy thinks of the guy when he’ll guide him to the table, but by then Matt will have found him already. The smell of leather, a strong body, probably smelling like plaster, or paint, or… something. It would cling to his clothes, his shoes; he’ll know it. And he’ll already be drinking coffee, black and without anything fancy in it. Pete has often ranted about hipster drinks before, and Matt shares his views on coffee at least.

Maybe other stuff.

He’ll know soon.

Foggy opens the door and stops dead; Matt almost drops his cane.

“Oh, no,” Foggy says in a strangled voice.

“Hell, no.”

“Oh, fuck.”

“Um, Matt. Not ‘Fuck, no’? Just ‘Fuck’?”

He ignores Foggy. “ _Pete_? Where does that come from? Why not Frank?”

“I didn’t choose the name. _Mike_.”

“Well, at least Karen picked my middle name.”

“Then I guess you’re still a squeaky-clean altar boy; no lies for you.” Frank grunts; he’s unhappy but he’s probably trying not to make a scene. “You could have said you were blind, at least. Wouldn't have sent that picture.”

“You didn’t tell him…?” Foggy’s almost sputtering.

“I don’t want to be judged on _that_.”

“God forbid! No, better have people feel like jerks when they realize they haven’t taken something important into account because they _didn't know._ ”

“Fogs – ”

Quick steps from the counter, and a plate is put in the table.

“Your shortbread,” the waiter says. “Enjoy!” He leaves as quickly as he arrived, and they all three fall silent.

“Shortbread,” Foggy says at last. “Your favorite.”

Matt shrugs.

“You were really going for it, then.” Foggy sounds almost admiring.

“Yeah,” Frank replies. “Why not?”

This is all kinds of wrong, and Matt squeezes Foggy’s arm. “We’re leaving.”

Then his stomach grumbles. Loudly.

Foggy sighs. “Did you get lunch?”

“I went to train.” Maggie left the heavy bag hanging under the church, and he often goes there at lunchtime. Quick shower and then he was back to work, energized and ready to tackle the afternoon’s workload. Maggie often was busy at this hour, doing laundry or taking care of the sick kids or doing paperwork while most of the St. Agnes children are at school; no one disturbed him, not even the new priest.

“Right, but did you eat anything?”

“Just sit down and eat the shortbread, Red.”

“Don’t call me that!”

“You’re wearing red glasses, _Red_.”

Matt grits his teeth. “I’m not hungry.” His stomach betrays him again, though.

“You forgot to eat again, didn’t you?”

“Stomach noises don’t mean I’m hungry.”

“Fuck’s sake, just stop making a fuss. Sit down, eat, and then we can forget everything about this, all right?” Frank sounds almost… tired. He must be disappointed; he was expecting a date, not, well, Matt Murdock.

“I guess he’s not going to start shooting up the place, right? Ha ha. Joking. Um.”

“I might stab you with my stirrer if you don’t stop babbling, _Counselor_.”

Matt sighs. The shortbread smells fantastic, Foggy is extremely uncomfortable, and yes, fine, he’s hungry. A bit. He just doesn't remember to eat, sometimes. When there’s something else to do, which is often.

“Fine, I’ll eat it since I’m here.” Waste not want not, right? That’s what they teach kids, at the orphanage. “I’ll see you back at the office pretty quick, Fogs.”

“Okay. You sure? No, yeah, okay, you’re a big boy. Just don’t kill each other because you’re angry your date didn’t turn out as it was supposed to, okay? I can’t pay for your funeral, Matty; the wedding’s already putting me in the red.”

“We’re fine.”

Foggy is probably going to go straight to Karen and tell her everything, and Matt expects he’ll be grilled as soon as he sets foot in the office. He tries not to follow the sound of Foggy’s footsteps outside, in case he calls her ahead. He doesn’t want, or need, to know.

“Sit, Red. I’ll get you something to eat. They got sandwiches and shit.”

Matt can almost feel Frank's eyes on him, heavy and assessing. “I’m fine.” Then, because Frank is being if not exactly nice, at least decent, he adds, “Don’t bother yourself; you already got the shortbread. I’ll pay you back.”

“I’m not a fancy lawyer, but I can afford a damn sandwich.”

“I’m not that fancy, you know.” Matt can’t bring himself to go for the shortbread; it’s calling him but he feels… weird, at the idea of picking it up and just going for it. “Foggy and I, we don’t make that much, and we didn’t really get in the business to be rich. Plus I have to pay back Karen; she paid my rent when I was, uh, away.”

“Away?”

Matt doesn’t want to talk about it. “Yeah.”

Frank’s chair scrapes a little and he stands; he takes his jacket off and drapes it over the back. “I’m getting another coffee, want something?”

“I’m f- I’m good. Thanks.”

Frank snorts and goes to the counter; Matt hears him order two large coffees, black, and a pastrami sandwich.

“There,” Frank says as the tray clatters on the table. “Just eat, for fuck’s sake.”

“I…”

“I know you’re out and about almost every night; you can’t do that on an empty stomach. That’s how you’ll get killed.”

Matt’s fingers find the tray, the plate. “I don’t see the connection. And I don’t _not_ eat anyway.”

“You can’t do the shit you do without fuel. You need proteins and carbs to keep you going and build muscle.”

“Hey! I’m not… skinny.”

Frank huffs. “Guess you should put some meat on your bones is all.”

Matt grabs the sandwich, opens his mouth, then puts the sandwich back down. “Did you just make a joke?”

“Do you think I’m the kind of guy that makes jokes?”

Matt goes for the sandwich instead of answering. It’s really good, and Frank is strangely patient next to him, sitting quiet and still. Or maybe it’s not strange; he’s a sniper after all. There is the smell of Frank’s cheap shower gel on his skin, of some generic laundry soap; he’s not carrying. Right, this was supposed to be a date; who would be going on a regular date with a regular guy with a gun? Not even Frank Castle, apparently. He’d been going as Pete but Matt’s habit of not being truthful, of not telling the whole truth at least, crashed all his plans. Not that he could have said _Hey, I’m blind_ without revealing too much for comfort, but… He sighs.

“Thank you,” he says. “You didn’t have to, and I appreciate it.”

Frank huffs, almost embarrassed, and drinks some coffee.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t the guy you were expecting. Hope you’ll have better luck with your next date.”

“Red, you know who I am. I’m not going to – yeah. I’m too busy for that.”

“Too busy decimating the NY drug lords’ minions?”

“Better than getting _mugged_ at night.”

“I didn’t get mugged.”

“No shit.”

“I shouldn't have called you.”

Frank’s shirt scrapes against the jacket; he’s shrugging. “You sounded real bad on the phone.”

“Yeah, I, well. I called a friend, and then I think I tried to call her again, but…”

“Claire?”

“Yes. She’s great.”

“Maybe ask _her_ out.”

“That ship sailed a long time ago.” Matt toys with his coffee cup, turns it right, then left. “I can’t really… we can’t really hide who we are, can we?”

“No.”

“Guess that app didn’t go that wrong after all, apart from all the ways it did.”

Frank makes a hiccupy sound; Matt tilts his head then decides it’s a laugh. “Yeah,” Frank says. “Well, it was fun while it lasted.” He waves his hand at someone. “Can we get this to go?”

“Of course,” a waitress says.

“Frank?”

“You look like you can’t make up your mind about eating it or not. Just take it with you.”

“Oh. Yeah, good idea.” Matt slides the shortbread from the plate into the box the waitress brings.

“My girl was like that.” Matt makes a questioning sound. “Always had something better to do than food. So we just, we kept leaving snacks around her.”

“You were a good dad.”

“Not when it mattered.” Frank stands up and puts on his jacket; he’s suddenly cold and closed off. “Don’t get mugged again,” he says, and then he’s off.

Matt takes his time to finish his coffee and tries to think what he’s going to tell Foggy and Karen. He knows they’re going to demand a report, and he’s not… what can he say? ‘We met, we didn’t kill each other, the end’? He takes out his phone. Should he remove the app, after this fiasco? He can’t really date anyone; this whole thing proves it. Either he lies and then nothing true can come out of it, or he doesn’t and then… and then, someone will pay the price for his foolishness.

He’ll delete the app tonight.

The one good thing about what happened to Mr. Park, Matt thinks, is that it derailed Karen and Foggy’s interrogation. As soon as he got back to their office they closed in on him like sharks that have just smelled blood.

“So?”

“No, Karen, wait. Matt, are you okay? Not bleeding anywhere?”

“Frank wouldn’t hurt him!”

“Really?”

“Okay, but not in public.”

“A client’s coming up,” Matt cut in.

It had been Mr. Park, who’d just found himself terminated, evicted, and divorced all on the same day.

It seemed like a lot, so they looked into it, and now Matt has the answer: someone is blackmailing him because he refused to pay certain people. Fine, Matt – Daredevil – will deal with them. The law will take down their official front, and the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen will make sure the unofficial side is crippled enough they won’t think of starting all over again.

When he’s done, Matt listens for anything he wouldn't have noticed earlier, when he was busy kicking teeth out. He thinks something was just on the edge of his awareness, but it didn’t seem relevant to the fight so he tuned it out. Now he can focus on it, and… oh. He runs down the stairs to the basement and there it is, a dog on a chain. He hasn't called the cops yet, but when they get there the dog is sure to go to – he doesn’t want to think about it. The dog barks once and rattles its chain when Matt approaches, and he’s not sure he should get too close. Who knows what it’s thinking or understanding of what just happened?

He thinks for a minute, then his mind is made up.

_Let’s do this._

The dog is cooperative once Matt unties its chain and gives it some kibble from the bag by the door, and best of all it’s quiet. They walk for about a block, then Matt calls the cops on his burner. After that, he decides his own building is as good a place as any; and getting the dog on the roof will be easy enough. Frank won’t know his address; he’ll just think it’s a random place in the Kitchen. Mask off, Matt pretends to walk his dog, a paper bag stolen from a trashcan in hand so he can look like a responsible pet owner; the closer he gets to his building the more paranoid he feels. What if someone is out and about, and recognizes their blind neighbor? He’s extra careful, and crouches to pet the dog or fiddle with his shoelaces every time he hears someone nearby.

Finally, he gets home; the dog happily follows him up the stairs and doesn’t protest when Matt then takes it to the roof. He ties the chain to something that feels sturdy enough, leaves the roof access door open while he gets back to the kitchen to get a bowl of water and… what do dogs eat? He doesn’t have kibble, and he doesn’t think pasta or rice are going to cut it. And should he bring it a blanket or something? Finally, he climbs back to the roof with the water and an old, ratty blanket. The dog seems happy enough and curls up on the blanket after drinking, so Matt sits next to it for a while and enjoys the cool, late night for a while. Then he takes his smartphone out and opens the app.

 _Found you something  
_ _On the roof,_ he sends, then gives the address.

Using the app to message _Frank_ , not Pete, feels weird, and it’s only after he’s sent it that he thinks, _Fuck, maybe he’s deleted the app_. And now he’s got a dog tied on his own roof in the middle of New York… what does that say about him? He’s not sure. What if Frank doesn’t come? What does one do with abandoned dogs? Matt has no idea. If Frank doesn’t come, he’ll have to figure it out.

Matt waits a few more minutes before going back inside. He doesn’t want Frank to find him here or worse, guess that it’s his own address. He strips out of his suit and goes to have a shower; the hot water soothes his muscles and stings in a few places where he got cut, but he’s nowhere as hurt as he’s been other times. A few nicks, a few bruises… nothing bad. He slaps some ointment where the skin’s broken and covers the wounds so he doesn’t end up with bloodied sheets, and finally pads out of the bathroom. He puts on some soft clothes, chugs some water, plugs his phone in for the night, sets his alarm, and then there’s a ding.

He hasn't heard that ding in days, of course.

 _A dog, Red?  
_ _A fucking dog?_ his phone reads out.

Seems like Frank came while Matt was showering; he didn’t hear him.

 _I didn’t want to leave it for the cops to find_ , Matt dictates.

 _Branching out into saving both people and animals then  
_ _What’s next  
_ _Succulents?_

_Fuck you_

Frank doesn’t answer for a while so Matt drops his phone on the bedside table and lets sleep claim him.

In the morning, he’s got a new message:

 _**3:17am  
**_ _I’m not taking it to the pound  
_ _I’m not that kind of asshole_

Matt smiles at his ceiling. He’s repaid Frank for the food; they’re even.

Life goes on and he doesn’t delete the app. It’s a way to get in touch with Frank if he needs to, after all. Not that he thinks he will, and he won’t be able to use it on the burner he takes with him at night, but… still. It might be useful, one day, somehow. And Frank himself hasn’t deleted it, right? Since he answered.

Karen and Foggy stop asking him about his meeting with Frank, but they also don’t ask him if he’s found anyone else. Matt thinks they understand, finally, that he can’t really find someone on a dating app; even for a simple one-night stand, there would be too many questions. His body had too many scars to fit his Catholic, blind lawyer with a tendency to walk into doors, public persona. It just can’t work, not anymore. Not like it did when he was twenty, anyway. The moment he takes off his shirt… yeah. Unless, he muses, he only dates other blind people, but then they’d feel the scars under their fingertips, the raised lines and the still-healing wounds that he knows are there. Okay, so maybe a blind lover that he would never be naked with.

And the people who do know about him? Well, that never turned out good, so… single forever, that’s him. A fighting monk, a Knight Templar, perhaps… but one without a suit of armor and without a sword. It’s fanciful even for him, and he can already imagine Maggie mocking him for having such lofty ideas about himself. He should go see her; they haven’t talked in more than a week. It means he hasn’t needed to get stitches in places he can’t reach; he knows that’s what she focuses on. But she’s smart and she knows him well, so she will also ask to see the places that he _can_ reach and tut at him.

Still, he’s not sure he wants to talk about his (lack of) love life with her. It would be awkward as hell: she’s a nun, she raised him, and she’s, well, she’s his mother. They never talk about it, and they basically ignore this giant looming thing they’re both too scared to tackle. Daredevil is not the man without fear; he’s just a guy who’s not afraid of getting the shit kicked out of him. The rest… the rest he finds terrifying, but the rest isn’t Daredevil’s business. It’s Matt Murdock’s, and Matt Murdock prefers running away from what he actually fears by becoming someone else. Not unlike his mother, he sometimes thinks uncharitably; but then again she was sick. He can’t hold it against her, right? She was sick. Not like him. He’s just a coward, not someone whose mental health is deteriorating to the point he can’t function as a regular person.

A knock on the open door almost makes him fall from his chair.

“Hey Matt, why the long face?”

Right, he’s, he’s at the office. “Sorry, Fogs, just a bit tired.”

“Let me guess: too-short nights?”

“Nah, the usual.”

“The usual what, three hours of sleep you get? That’s not sustainable and you know it.”

“I’m fi – ”

“Don't you dare finish that word, Murdock. You could take a nap instead of going to hit a bag for an hour, you know?”

“It does me good.”

“ _Sleep_ will also do you good!” Matt must have made a face, because Foggy enters into the room fully and sits on the corner of Matt’s desk. “Look, I’m not telling you to stop doing, you know, what you do. But you also can’t resent us – Karen, and me, and the people who care about you – for worrying!”

“I’m f… I don’t need… I’m making it work, all right? I’m balancing things; I haven’t missed court or been late. I haven’t let you down! And I’m doing good at night, too; I’m not stopping. I’m _not_.”

Foggy is quiet for a moment. “Yeah, so that’s why I was suggesting a nap, buddy. You’re on a hair-trigger, and that can’t be good for you. You’re tired; that’s okay. It’s a normal thing that can happen to anyone, even to you.”

“I’ve got work to do.”

“Nothing that can’t wait. Why don’t you go home? Take the afternoon off, sleep, rest at least. You’ll do a better job tonight, and I’ll sleep easier knowing you took a break.”

“But there’s work to do here, first.”

“Nothing that can’t wait. Go on, shoo. And don’t work from home or go to the crypt gym, you hear me?”

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you. Loud and clear.” Matt sighs. The mood he’s in, Foggy’s not going to leave him in peace as long as he stays at the office, so Matt packs his bag and unfolds his cane with a snap. “Tell Karen you kicked me out, all right?”

“It’s for your own good and you know it.”

Matt scowls, but he still leans into the hug Foggy gives him. “Yeah, okay, you’re right. Just for today.”

“You bet; you’re not leaving me to carry this firm solely on my own shoulders.”

Foggy pushes him out of the door and closes it pointedly behind him, so Matt gets down the stairs and walks home. He said he wouldn't go to the church so he won’t; he’s trying to be honest here, but when he gets home he still takes his work computer out and finishes what he’d been doing (well, supposed to be doing) when Foggy startled him out of his thoughts. When he’s on his own in his apartment, he doesn’t have to use earbuds; he prefers not having anything in his ears so he is glad for the opportunity. When he’s done it’s already 4, and he thinks maybe he should use the time he’s got here to do some cleaning. Laundry, dishes, buffing the shoes he wears at court… then a client calls him, and Fran knocks and asks him to help move her bed from one side of her bedroom to the other, and then he listens to the news, and then – well, then it’s Daredevil time.

So he changes into his night clothes, takes the time to carefully wrap the ropes around his hands and wrists, and off he goes.

The night is relatively quiet; Matt does his rounds as usual, going to the areas he knows muggers favors and checking Violent Vince isn’t threatening his wife again. The Devil’s shown him the error of his ways and he’ll do it again if he has to, but Matt hopes the lesson will stick. A group of drunk assholes order food and try to steal whatever money the guy delivering pizza has with him but Matt’s there before they even get their hands on the few bucks the pizza guy had with him, then he rescues some kittens that were abandoned in a bag on top of a dumpster. _Seriously_ , he thinks, _who does that?_ He finds a box, puts them in it, and takes them to Mrs. Cho’s doorstep. She’ll know what to do with them; anyone who wants a cat in the Kitchen knows to ask her first. She’ll find them good homes. Cats, Matt decides, are easier than dogs, apart from the putting-in-box part: the ropes give them something great to sink their claws in and try to climb out, but he’s Daredevil. He can manage a few tiny kittens. Mostly. At least no one’s seen him struggling.

So yes, the night is slow, and that’s good. Right? Of course, of course it is. Matt is feeling a little antsy, a little useless, a little like he’s not doing what he should. Foggy would say he’s spoiling for a fight but he’d be wrong: Matt doesn’t _want_ to hit people, it’s just that it’s _too_ quiet. Too slow. Something’s going to happen, is maybe happening _right now_ , and he doesn't know where. It’s never this quiet in the city.

Matt shakes his head and resumes his patrol; he’s going to find it. His senses won’t let him down; he’ll find whoever it is that’s trying to hide and hurt – _there_. He takes a running jump over a narrow alley and barely makes it to the other building but of course he doesn’t fall. He’s Daredevil; falls are for other people. He’s grinning, elated; adrenaline is pumping through his veins, _finally,_ and then… “Frank.”

Frank’s here with a sniper gun, and Matt throws a baton at it before launching himself at Frank. “Red, what…”

“I’m not going to let you shoot people right here in the Kitchen!” Kick, Frank dodges; jab jab punch, Frank ducks and steps back. Asshole. Matt tries to swipe Frank’s feet from under him but the bastard’s seen him coming and then Matt’s flat on his front, pinned down under Frank.

“You done?”

“No.”

“Yes, you are. Never seen you telegraph your moves like that, Red. Sloppy.”

“I’ll show you sloppy.” Matt wriggles out, no, tries to wriggle out, but Frank’s heavy. Heavier than expected. “Let me up.”

“Why, so you can start again?”

“ _Yes_.”

“I’m not shooting anyone up, okay? Not tonight. I was just doing some surveillance.”

“With a gun.”

“Yeah. Scope’s real good on that one, and I left it on the gun just in case.”

“In case of what?”

Frank finally loosens his grip and steps back, and Matt jumps to his feet. He’s dizzy for a second; he got from lying down to standing too quickly. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Right.” Frank doesn’t believe him; it’s obvious. Matt doesn’t give a damn. “And yeah, I’m checking out a cargo ship. Shipment's drugs and weapons, and some pretty big crime bosses keep coming and going. Making deals, I reckon.”

Matt sits on the gritty-feeling roof. “A ship?” They’re far from the docks.

“It’s out there, few hundred yards out at sea. I’m trying to see who’s bidding.”

“Oh.” Frank was doing recon, then. Probably planning something Matt won’t like later on, but not doing any of that tonight.

“I was about to wrap up anyway when you decided to jump me; there hasn’t been anyone for a couple hours.” He rummages into a backpack and then produces something wrapped in foil; the sound is unmistakable. “Hungry?”

Matt frowns, not that Frank can see it under the mask. “Hungry?”

“Yeah, you know. That thing when your stomach feels empty; usually happens when you forget to eat too often?”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“Am I wrong?”

Matt crosses his arms.

“Right. Suit yourself.”

Frank unwraps his sandwich but then drops something on Matt’s lap.

“What…” He touches it. There’s still foil around it; it smells like ham and pickles and is shaped like a triangle.

“Just eat the damn thing, Red.”

“It’s yours.” Matt can’t quite wrap his mind around it. “Aren’t _you_ hungry?”

“Are you always this difficult?”

Frank finishes his own food, packs his rifle into its case, and slings it over his shoulder. “Just go home, yeah? You look like you need it.”

“I don’t! Foggy said the same thing; why would you all say that?”

“Well, we got working eyes. You look like shit.”

“I’m wearing a mask!”

“Yeah, and you couldn’t land one on me earlier. Hope you’re not planning on more ninja shit tonight, Red.”

The rusty fire escape creaks as he makes his way down but Matt stays here, a sandwich in his hand that he doesn’t quite know if he should eat or not.

“Maybe I’m a little bit hungry,” he says to no one once he can’t hear Frank anymore.

The sandwich’s simple, but filling. He finds he falls asleep more easily than usual, with a full belly.

_**9:43am**  
_ _Thanks for the sandwich_

_You’re welcome_

One week later, it’s Frank who joins him under a rooftop water tower.

“Heard you took down that gambling ring.”

“They were a front.”

“Yeah, I know. Good job.”

Matt is stumped. Frank hasn’t come all the way here just for that. “What do you want?”

Frank shrugs. “Was just looking for a good spot.”

“A good spot for what?”

Frank sighs. “Remember that cargo ship?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s moved. I’m looking for a better spot for surveillance.”

“Why are they still out there?”

“Word is, they’re asking for too much money for the drugs. It’s a new kind, highly addictive but also rare enough that tracing it back to the makers then down to the buyers might be too easy. Risky drug.”

“Hm.” Matt thinks about it. “Maybe just sinking the ship would do the trick. Get rid of it.”

“There are sailors aboard, Red; did you forget that or are you into killing, now?”

He actually did forget. He forgot for a moment that ships didn’t sail by themselves, like an idiot. He doesn’t know _anything_ about ships. “Maybe they’re in on it.”

“They’re not part of the operation; they don’t even know what they’re sitting on. If they did, they’d sure have stolen it already.”

“Right, okay.”

“We can plan something, though.” Frank sits on the ledge that runs around the tower and pulls a little box out. He opens it, and Matt’s mouth waters: he’s got still-warm burritos in there. “Hungry?”

“Is that an insulated box?”

“Yeah. Hungry?”

“I’m fine.”

“They’re from Tía Anita.” Shit, that’s Matt’s favorite Mexican place. “C’mon, have one.”

Matt tries to resist, he really does; but in the end he loses the battle. _Gluttony_ , he thinks: something more to confess tomorrow. “Thanks,” he says, and he takes one after pushing his mask up. They eat in silence; the city’s night noises are enough for them. There’s nothing much to say, anyway. Frank hands him a plastic bottle and Matt takes a sip of water, wipes his mouth.

“Did you keep the dog, after all?” he asks.

“Yeah. Pearl. She’s a good girl.”

“ _Pearl?_ ”

“What?”

“It’s, uh, a sweet name.”

“She’s a sweet dog. Grayish white, so. Pearl.”

“Okay. Good. I’m glad.” Matt stands up and wipes his palms against his thighs; he feels wrong-footed. “I’ll get going, then.”

“Yeah. Hit me up if you get intel about that ship; I don’t think I’m going to get anything more than what I already got. It’s called the Vanson.”

“Will do.”

Matt opens his mouth then changes his mind. He doesn't really have anything to say after all so he just nods, pulls his mask down, and leaves before he embarrasses himself even more.

Matt shakes down a few regular sources, and he learns that the Vanson will dock on a Monday night. There’s going to be more than one buyer, but most of the shipment will be secured in a warehouse not far from the docks so that it’s all dispatched in discreet, smaller operations. It’s a start, but Matt needs more. He needs proof he can get to the NYPD, or at least the names of the criminal bigwigs involved so he knows what minions to go after for more. He knows who’s who, and he knows who’s got a softer belly.

And he needs that intel before Frank decides to shoot everyone full of lead; the city doesn’t need more death than it already gets.

He finishes his night on the roof of a low building that houses Ahmed’s bodega; he’s gone in wearing his Daredevil gear and bought a bottle of water there more than once and Ahmed’s never commented on it. Matt is grateful; he felt silly the first time but also parched and he put the few bills he keeps in his cargo pants to good use. Ahmed, he thinks, gives him back more change than he should; but Matt can’t really ask about it. He just pretends not to notice, and since he can’t check, well. He nods, and gets on the roof, and drinks his water.

Even when some people make the fire escape rattle and groan as they climb it.

“Get some Gatorade, next time.”

“Hi, Frank.” Matt sips some more. “You’re about as quiet as a herd of elephants, you know that?”

“Not trying to be quiet.”

“Elephants, Frank. Elefranks.”

There’s blessed, shocked silence for a few moments. “That,” Frank says, “was terrible.”

“Still better than Gatorade.”

“Gatorade’s good for you.” Frank comes closer and rests his elbows on the low wall Matt’s sitting on. “Found anything?”

“No.”

“ _Red_.”

“You?”

Frank shakes his head. “Not much, but I know you’ve been talking to people.”

“The best we can do,” Matt says, “is to find evidence that can be used in court. Even if we get them and destroy the goods this time, they’ll just start again.”

“Not if they’re dead.”

“Frank – ”

“Spare me the sermon, altar boy.” He takes off his backpack and gets his box out. “I got some pepperoni rolls.” He opens the box and Matt feels his nose twitch. “Spill, Red.”

“That’s bribery.”

“Yeah.”

“Not good evidence in court.”

“Do I look like a lawyer to you?”

“You don’t _look_ like anything to me.”

Frank groans. “You’re not getting any, then,” and he takes a roll, closes the box, and starts eating.

“You’re evil.”

“Hmm.”

Matt seethes, but then he caves in. “Monday after next. They’ll be offloading. Then, over the week, the buyers will come and get their goods.”

“If there’s still goods to buy.”

Frank hands him the box and Matt takes a roll after removing his mask; it’s delicious. The water, he realizes, may not have been all he needed earlier.

“So,” Matt says once he’s finished. “What’s your plan, torch everything and kill everyone? You know I’m not going to let you do that.”

“ _Let_ me, uh.” Frank’s smiling; it’s right there in his voice, in how he shapes the words. Matt wonders if he could read words, if he put his fingers on Frank’s mouth. “Red, I know you. We want the same thing here.”

“But…”

“I’m thinking C4. They’re gonna have guards around where they’ll store their shit, right? You can lure them out and hit them with your funny little batons, and once they’re out cold and far enough, the building goes boom. Your darling cops get there; they find the evidence, job done. The guards aren’t the main enemy, but from them I can find who’s behind it.”

“I’m not fond of buildings that go boom, Frank.”

“I know. Here,” Frank says as he nudges him with the box again and lo and behold, there’s one half of a roll left. “You’d be dragging the guards away. You'd be safe.”

“I’m not afraid! It’s not about being safe; it’s…”

“I _know_ , Red.”

Frank puts the now-empty box back into his bag. “I’ll be in touch.”

“Stalking me on rooftops?”

“Dunno; might hit up our common pal Mike. See ya, Red.”

Frank leaves and Matt listens for him, listens for his footsteps and heartbeat for as long as he can. He wouldn't have expected _the Punisher_ to carry food around in an insulated box and even share it, but the man is apparently full of surprises. Well, at least Matt was right about him liking dogs; that’s something.

And Matt has to hand it to him, he knows where to get some great late-night snacks. He’s not looking forward to working with Frank on this shipment because he can never be sure that Frank won’t decide to do it his way after all but maybe, this one time… maybe he can give it a try.

Matt’s pretty pleased to hear the news the morning after their joint operation, and he’s finding it hard not to preen when Foggy and Karen are all congratulations when he gets to Nelson and Murdock. Well, not _all_ congratulations; Foggy also asks about how hurt he is (“I’m fine, Fogs”) and Karen demands he cough up the deets on working with Frank.

“Wait, what? The papers only mention Daredevil, right?”

Karen’s hair swishes around her face as she shakes her head. “Well, the survivors only saw Matt, but the explosions… That was him, right?”

“Holy shit, I thought you’d, I don’t know, done something to the gas mains!”

“Um.”

“Right, should have guessed; you were terrible at even just using the stove in the common kitchen. Frank’s crazy but he’s a more hands-on kind of guy.”

“Foggy…”

“Oh my God, you’re courting. You’re courting each other! With mayhem and violence!”

Well, the day has gone downhill pretty quickly. Matt gathers what dignity he has left and escapes to his own office. He can’t quite tune out Karen and Foggy’s speculations on the other side of the wall, but he does his best to focus on work and finally, after ten minutes of giggling and snickering, so do they.

Matt breathes a little easier after that.

His senses are real sharp, yes, but they’re not infallible. He can be focusing on something else, or meditating, or maybe just tired, and that’s when he misses things.

Today, it’s a bit of everything: the week has been long, and while they’ve won a big case they had to put in a lot of last-minute work into it. And of course, on top of that, he’s still doing his nightly rounds; crashing the Vanson operation and getting the NYPD onto it has certainly put a serious dent into the plans of the big crime lords and ladies but they’re not gone, and petty criminals are still around and active. They’re even _more_ around and active, since the usual micro-managing several gangs usually do is out of the window for now. No one’s there to tell a thief that this is Libris territory, for instance. Well, not exactly no one; he’s crossed paths with Frank a few times and the Punisher can be… eloquent, in his own way. But he’s not in the Kitchen every night: Matt is.

So the Devil has to intervene again and again and _again_ , and now the Devil is tired. Exhausted, even. So much so he almost misses the sound of a very familiar heartbeat – and another one, faster, closer to the ground.

There’s a knock on Matt’s open door and Frank says, “Hey, Red.”

“That’s Frank,” Foggy adds extremely unhelpfully. “What’s Frank doing here, Matty? He your client? Sorry, Frank, but if you need an attorney, don’t ask me.”

“Frank?” Matt is stumped. Why is Frank here? With his dog? “Did something happen?” He could have used the app to tell him, though; it’s become a Daredevil and Punisher link now instead of a dating app.

“No. Sit, Pearl.” Karen makes a strangled noise, and Frank sighs. “Yeah, you can pet her.”

“Oooh!” Karen’s heels staccato on the floor and she kneels in front of the dog. “Who’s a good girl, uh? Whooo?”

The dog’s panting sounds enthusiastic enough, but it doesn’t explain – oh. “I’m not taking the dog back, Frank.”

“Wait, what?” Foggy asks.

“Red gave me the dog.”

“Red gave you – look, I know I'm repeating myself, but. _What?_ ”

If Matt had hackles they would rise, but he’s not a dog. He’s got to go with words. “I found it. It would have gone to a pound or worse, so.” He shrugs. “Frank was a better option. He likes dogs.”

“I do,” Frank says. “And I’m keeping her.”

“Okay, right. Which doesn’t explain why you’re – oh. _Oh_.” Foggy is having some sort of epiphany, and Matt braces himself for whatever it is Foggy’s going to share with the class. “Are you secretly dating, but are now coming out about it?”

Matt is horrified. “Of course not!”

“Yeah,” Frank says.

Matt is _more_ horrified.

Even the dog is quiet for a moment.

“But,” Matt protests, feebly. “We – I – no.”

Karen strides to the waiting room – the corridor, really – and brings back two chairs that she plops down for Foggy and herself. “We should have popcorn for this,” she whispers. It’s a very loud whisper.

“Oh, yeah.” And that’s how Foggy’s not Matt’s friend anymore.

“We’re not dating.” Matt wished saying it out loud was more convincing than that.

“You got me a dog,” Frank says. “I brought you food. Several times. That we shared.”

“Aw!” Karen’s chair squeaks as she bends forward. Matt feels humiliated; his life isn’t a soap opera, contrary to what Foggy pretends.

“It was random!”

“Jesus, Murdock, you’re something all right.”

“This is great,” Foggy breathes. “Better than Netflix.”

Matt wants to jump out of the window and run back home to hide under his bed, but he doesn’t think he can get away with it. They all know where he lives, for one thing, and the blind lawyer who works on the second floor shouldn't be seen parkouring around the neighborhood. He’s already bad enough at the secret identity thing; no need to make it worse. Right? But God, he wants to.

“Matt, buddy, you look like you want to jump out of the window.” Shit. “You know that’s not a good idea, right?”

He _hates_ Foggy. “Do you think I’m stupid?”

He hates the pointed silence after that question even more.

“So. Grab some beers, maybe dinner?” Frank asks.

“I think I have a condom or two in my purse if you need some,” Karen says unhelpfully. Matt tries to focus on the fact she carries condoms in her purse like she’s got regular hookups that he doesn't know anything about instead of what she’s implying.

“Nah, I’m good. Bought a box and everything. But thanks.”

“I don’t understand,” Matt… doesn’t whine. He’s not _whining_ ; he’s a self-possessed, successful lawyer and also a very respected and feared vigilante by night. _He’s_ _not whining_.

“Beers and dinner sound good, right? Looks to me like they’ve dated a while. What do you think, Karen?”

“Oh yeah, definitely. Frank’s doing his courting right and I’m rooting for him.”

“But…” Matt swallows. “I didn’t know. Why didn't you tell me?”

“Thought it was pretty obvious. So, beers?”

Matt turns his face in Foggy’s direction.

“We’re done for the day, Matt; I’m not finding you an excuse to stay here.”

So that’s what it’s all come down to. Matt sighs, pushes his chair back, and stands up. “Fine, okay, you win.”

“It’s not like that,” Karen says. “The idea is that you both win.”

“Right.” Matt puts on his jacket and unfolds his cane. “I’m not taking any work back home, Fogs.”

“You better not; it’s the weekend. Enjoy it, okay?”

Matt feels like he’s walking into the unknown, not going to a bar. “Right. You too.”

He aims for the door and he can hear Frank and his dog are following. He’s leaving Foggy and Karen to tidy up the office and wrap up what they need to for the weekend, but they’ve practically kicked him out so he’s not feeling too guilty about it.

Finally, he’s reached the door to the street so he waits there. Frank’s steps are confident, neither hurried nor slow, and he stops too when he’s only a few feet away.

“You can say no.”

“No, I just… you caught me by surprise, is all.”

“You don’t look surprised; you look… pissed off.”

“Well I’m not.” They call him the Man Without Fear, right? He’s just lost his footing here, but he’ll get it back, no problem. “Know any place where they’ll accept a dog?”

“Yeah.” Frank moves closer. “Wanna take my arm?”

“I don’t need to.”

Frank sighs. “I know. It’s just, you know.”

“Do you think – wait. Are you flirting?”

“ _Jesus Christ_ ,” Frank grits out.

Matt hesitates. Frank waits; he’s there, solid, patient. Way more patient than you’d expect, if you’d only ever met him while he’s mid-killing spree. He’s a better listener than you’d think, too, but he's not taking any bullshit either. And then Pearl nudges Matt’s leg and, all right, fine. He takes Frank’s arm and lets him guide them to whatever dog-friendly bar they're going to.

* * *

Red’s looking a bit dazed at their table, his fingers working at the label on his beer bottle like they need to do something while the brain’s stalled.

Frank can’t believe Murdock never realized what it was they were doing; how could he be so – ha – blind? Sure, the first time or two they met after their sort-of-date, it was chance. But then it absolutely wasn’t, and Frank sure didn’t try to make it look like it was. He remembered their conversations from before on the app: what pizza toppings Mike liked best, and his favorite New York park, and the kind of beer he preferred. He used that information to pick what snacks to bring; wasn’t it obvious?

“We can go to that Italian place you said you liked, on 41st.”

“ _I_ didn’t say it, _Mike_ did.”

“ _You’re_ Mike.”

“I lied to you.”

“You didn’t say some stuff, yeah. Neither did I.”

“Well, you couldn't really say ‘Oh, by the way, I murder people in my spare time.’”

“I don’t…” Frank sighs. Technically, he gets rid of assholes, and that probably counts as _murdering people_. And because of Red, he doesn't even kill them every single time. Not when Red’s around, at least. Altar boy softens him, and he’s not quite sure how he feels about that. So he doesn’t think about it.

“Why did you change your mind, then?”

“Change my mind?”

“You said we’ve been dating, but I’m not sure it counts as dating if one party isn’t aware of it.”

“Don’t lawyer at me. Thought you were supposed to be smart; guess I was wrong.”

“But you were angry at that coffee shop. Disappointed.”

“I liked him. Mike.”

“I’m not Mike.”

“Right.”

Frank shakes his head. _Mike_ is at least as stubborn as Frank himself, and that’s saying something. Red takes his wallet out and pulls out a precisely folded bill, then a second.

“That’s fifteen dollars.”

Red makes a face. “Fifteen?” He runs his fingers over the folds. “Should be two tens.”

“Yeah, well. Don’t bother; I’ve got…”

“I can pay.”

“Well yeah, sure, but…”

Murdock pulls a bunch of origami-ed bills out of his wallet and slams them in front of Frank. “How am I supposed to tell them apart? They’re the same size, same paper, but I can’t read them.”

So he folds them to know which is which, and he has to trust whoever tells him what bills they’re giving him back. Looks like someone shortchanged him. He sorts them before putting them in Red’s hand. “Those are all tens,” he says, and he sees how Red checks the folding, nods, and puts them back into his wallet. “Those are fivers,” and then, “Twenties.”

“So there was only one that was wrong.”

“Yeah.”

Frank watches him stand up, go to the bar, and get a new round for them. He navigates easily enough; people part in front of the cane as Murdock walks back to their table, holding the bottles by the neck in his free hand. He neatly avoids stepping on Pearl’s outstretched legs, and bends to give her chin a scratch after sitting down.

“Who does it for you?” he asks. “Sorting dollar bills. Who tells you which is which?”

Red shrugs. “Foggy used to do it, when we roomed together. He still asks sometimes if I need him to.”

“And what do you tell him?”

“I don’t need him; I can go to the bank and they’ll do it for me.”

Or he has to rely on whoever gives him his change, which clearly isn’t working so well. Although Red’s a living lie detector, so maybe he doesn't get ripped off too often. It’s easy to forget he’s blind sometimes, especially after only seeing him in his Daredevil pajamas for so long, but here, in a civilian context, with civilian concerns… yeah. Sure, he can jump off rooftops and kick out a guy with a roundhouse so powerful that Frank will never admit out loud makes him a little horny, but he can’t tell one bill from another and he probably doesn’t know that one of his socks is red and the other black. Which Frank doesn’t find endearing.

Like he doesn’t find endearing that little head tilt he does when he’s hearing something, or the way his face lit up when Frank brought a po’boy one night to one of their meetings, or… yeah.

“Anyway,” Red says, “thanks. For the bills. You didn’t have to. I appreciate it.”

Frank grunts and knocks his bottle against Red’s; he doesn't really know what to answer.

“So, pizza?” he finally says.

“That’s a _non sequitur_.”

“Don’t you Latin at me.”

“Catholic lawyer, Frank.”

Why does Frank even bother? “Pain in my ass, more like.”

“Maybe if you ask nicely,” Red says, and his sudden, cocky little grin is like a punch in the stomach. The grin shows a bit more teeth and the asshole can probably sense how Frank’s heart is suddenly pumping more blood to his face and, well, other regions. “But if you insist on wining and dining me, well… just lead on.”

“Made up your mind, then?”

“Yes. No. I mean, it was never no.”

“Coulda fooled me.”

“Frank, we do – we _know_ each other; we don’t need to hide who we are and that’s… good.”

“Okay.” So they can be fuckbuddies; is that what he’s saying?

“I was really looking forward to your, to Pete’s, to _your_ messages, and then… but I don’t have a good track record. What I said before holds: relationships are a liability. It’s dangerous.”

“For you, or for me? We’re not defenseless, Red, either of us.”

“No, we’re not.” He stands up and unfolds his cane. “Let’s skip pizza for tonight.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

Well, all right then. “Your place or…?”

“Um, yours. If you don’t mind.” Frank makes an inquiring sound. “Pearl.”

“You don’t want her at your apartment?”

“I’m not used to her yet; it’s… complicated.”

Frank suspects it’s something to do with his crazy senses, or maybe it’s just that he’s the kind to trip on everything in the morning before coffee, and adding a dog to that while he’s home and not expecting one would end badly.

This time Red takes his arm without prompting and he’s definitely keeping closer than is strictly needed, and if Frank walks a little more slowly than usual just so he can enjoy the anticipation no one’s going to stop him. And if anyone with red glasses comments, he’ll say it’s for the dog. Right, for the dog. Anyway Red’s not complaining about the pace, so Frank’s got no reason to hurry.

Still, they get to his building in the end; they climb up the steps and Frank holds the door open for both dog and man. Red toes off his shoes, leans his cane against the wall, and starts exploring; he tilts his head and follows the wall with his fingers until he finds the kitchen, then turns back to face Frank.

“Neighbors are quiet,” he says.

“Most of the time.” Like Frank, they spend most of their day away. Pearl’s claws click on the floor and she sits near her bowl, looking pointedly at Frank. “You hungry, girl?” It’s not really her usual mealtime, but Frank still gives her a little treat from the bag on the counter; she’s been good so far this evening.

“You’re right over a subway line.”

“That so?”

“I can feel the vibrations; they come up through the ground, the walls, the floor…” He’s got a small, soft smile on his face, and he looks like he’s not even really talking to Frank. “It’s not going too fast; there’s a bend right ahead.”

Frank is fascinated. They’ve never really talked about what Red can and can’t do, how he can actually perceive and how far and precise his senses are. And touch, Frank remembers, touch isn’t only in the fingers, in the hands. It’s the whole body. He takes the glasses off Red’s nose and folds them carefully before putting them next to the coffee machine; Red leans back against the kitchen counter and raises his chin a little. Bares his neck. Frank’s not sure if it’s invitation or challenge, but knowing Red… well. Frank’s up to it, anyway.

“How sensitive are you, really?” he asks, low into Murdock’s neck. It’s stubbly and prickly with soft, pale skin under it, and very much like Red himself.

“Hm. Never really tested it.”

“Leaving the job to me, then?”

Red hums again, and seems pretty happy to let Frank open his shirt and push it down to his elbows along with his jacket. “I’ve worked all day long; I’m tired.”

“Maybe I worked, too.”

“You went to the park with Pearl; there were other dogs. Flowers; a rose bush?”

Shit, he could… smell that? Frank flattens both palms on Red’s skin: on his stomach, his sides, then slowly up to his chest. He tugs the clothes further down, because he wants to see the arms that he remembers from the photo on Mike’s profile. Yeah, still looking real good, better than the pictures. Red’s hot, and Frank’s really enjoying the view.

“You like what you see,” Red says with a little wriggle against Frank’s groin. _Fuck._

He’s still talking; why is he still talking? “Stop talking.”

“Make me.”

Oh, fine. Frank’s mouth leaves the neck to go to Red’s lips and that’s when he seems to realize his arms are trapped; he jerks and grunts and looks almost outraged and Frank kisses him before he can protest. Red kisses like he fights; he loves it and he snarls and he puts his all in it, too. Frank’s feeling slightly overwhelmed, so he takes a break from those lips and rests his forehead against Red’s. At least Red looks as wrecked as Frank’s feeling, so that’s reassuring.

“The dog’s watching. Bedroom?”

“It’s like I'm putting out on the first date.”

“Not a first date, Red.”

“Aw, and here I was feeling so naughty.”

Frank’s pants grow a bit tighter, but at least he’s pretty sure he’s not the only one feeling a little constrained. “You ain’t seen nothing yet,” and he has to kiss Red again before he makes one of his stupid blind jokes again and Frank's in a mood, yes, but he’s not in that kind of mood; he’s in a mood that demands he drag Red by the arm, still caught in fabric and straining against it, to the tiny room where he’s got his bed and one small cupboard for his clothes but mostly, really, his bed, and pushing him down on it.

Red squirms until he’s mostly on his back and smirks, and that’s it. Frank's not going to let him win at this; Red might think he’s got the power here but he’s dead wrong.

Frank closes the door behind him before Pearl decides to come and investigate, and he sets out to show Red the error of his way. He’s not sure the lesson will stick, but it just means he’ll have to teach it again, and that’s no hardship. No, no hardship at all.

Frank always wakes up early and today’s no different, even if he’s feeling more mellow than usual. Well, it’s been a pretty active night, he thinks, looking at Red. His face is smashed in his pillow, and Frank doesn’t know how he breathes. He does though; Frank's checked.

He can’t bring himself to call Murdock by his Christian name, even if his own leaves Red’s lips every three sentences. Sometimes, he remembers, more often. Sometimes, it’s the only word that he’s got left. Frank would like to think it will only ever happen in similarly pleasant circumstances, but he’s not a fool. That's not how life, and especially their lives, can work. Holding each other’s dick doesn't mean they now magically agree on everything; it doesn’t mean Frank will stop killing assholes or that Murdock will just shrug it off and say, “Go on, Frank, shoot them all dead.”

No.

Red suddenly tenses then relaxes again; he’s awake.

“Hey.”

“Ugh.” Red’s not a graceful morning person, looks like. “Thinking too hard.” His words are muffled in the pillow.

“Yeah?”

“Woke me up,” and he sounds supremely disgruntled at that.

“You were thinking too hard?”

Red kicks his shin. “ _You_.”

Frank sighs because he doesn't want to smile; Red could hear it or something. “Ow.”

“Baby.”

Oh yeah, absolutely. “Pot, kettle.”

That’s when Red’s stomach makes funny noises, and that in turn makes him groan and curl on his side. “Ugh.”

“Aw, who’s a baby now?” Frank ruffles the mop of reddish-brown hair just because he can and, yes, because he knows it’s going to annoy Red. Frank smiles when his hand is smacked away with a grunt. “Breakfast?” he asks.

“ _Sleep_.”

“All right, then.” It’s not even 7am, but Frank’s not going to go back to sleep. He takes his phone from the bedside table and scrolls through the news quickly as Red’s breaths even out against his shoulder; then he watches Red sleep a bit more. He sleeps like he means it, like he gives it his all; there’s a tiny frown on his face and the fist his hand is making is tight and twitching. Frank isn’t touched, of course.

Finally, he leaves the bed and tugs the covers back over Red; after putting on sweats and a shirt he opens the bedroom door and finds Pearl anxiously waiting on the other side.

“Hey, girl,” he whispers. She’s not a barker, but she’s still bouncing around him when he slides his feet into boots and unhooks her leash.

 _Gone to walk the dog,_ he sends as she’s doing her little business in the gutter. In case Red wakes up to an empty apartment.

Once it looks like she’s done all she had to, he ambles to the bakery round the corner; he figures he can’t go wrong with baked goods, right? And he’s got eggs; everybody loves eggs, yeah? He pops in a little grocery for fruit in case Red wants some, and grabs some coffee too just because.

Back in the apartment and Pearl fed and settled in her crate, her eyes following him, he takes the eggs out of the fridge and frowns at the grapefruit. Maybe he should have gone with the bananas? He shakes his head and goes to check on Red; he’s still asleep.

“Frank?” Okay, not asleep.

“Yeah.”

That seems to satisfy him; he burrows deeper into his blanket nest and the little frown comes back, so Frank goes back to the kitchen. He starts the coffee machine, cracks the eggs, and doesn’t think of Maria’s trays that she’s gotten from her grandmother and that burned down with their house. He doesn’t have a tray here anyway, it’s not that kind of home – of _apartment_.

He’s poking at the eggs in the pan when two arms slither around him and he feels Red’s head settle against his own neck.

“Morning,” he says. “Managed to escape the bed, then?”

“Mmmh,” which isn’t a very clear answer, but then again Red’s mouth is currently busy on his skin, so.

“Can you carry two plates to the bed or will you trip on your feet?”

“My balance’s very good,” Red mumbles.

Oh yeah, that’s convincing. “Box from the bakery on your left,” Frank suggests. That sounds safer than the plates.

“Kicking me away,” Red complains, though he still takes the box. But, because he won’t be called an underachiever, he first catches two mugs by their handles from the dish rack, balances the box on top of that, and takes the coffee pot in his free hand. Pearl threads around his legs and he sidesteps all her attempts at making him trip and fall, and Frank has to admit he’s impressed.

He slides the eggs on two plates, adds the forks, and carries it all to the bedroom, where Red _and the dog_ are there and Pearl is lying on Frank’s side.

“She’s not allowed on the bed.”

“Crumbs, Frank,” he says with a little tap on the box. “So, why not dog?”

“Because.”

In the morning light, Frank can see the thin chain that he felt last night around Red’s neck. There's a small, simple golden cross on it, hanging right under his collarbone and glinting against his skin. Is this what he’s doing, now? He shoos off the dog. She trots back to her own bed in the main room and he sits on the bed, trying to wrap his mind around all of this. He’s handing scrambled eggs to a guy he met for the first time when they were enemies, then again for the first time when he met his lawyer, then _again_ on that stupid dating app. Is this what he wants? He was married once: this domestic shit isn’t new to him, though he suspects it is for Murdock.

What does he want? Frank’s not getting married a second time; he’s not living with anyone else ever again. And Red, he’s a handful: he won’t stop trying to save everyone or trying to convince Frank to do the same. It can’t work, he thinks; they’ll fuck a few times then go back to fighting each other more than fighting the same enemies. Right?

“You’re thinking too much,” Red says. “Eat your eggs before they get cold.”

Frank grunts and stabs the scrambled eggs with his fork. “I don’t _think_ ,” he says around a mouthful. “Not my style.”

“Uh huh.”

“You’re projecting, Red.”

That gets him some unwarranted snickering, but he ignores it. He finishes his eggs, takes Red’s plate and sets it on top of his on the floor.

What does he want?

Something hot nudges his biceps and he finds Red handing him his coffee. “Thanks.”

“It doesn’t have to be a _thing_ , Frank,” Red says gently. “I can even leave now.”

“No.” Frank doesn’t hesitate, and he even surprises himself. He certainly doesn’t want it, whatever _it_ is, to be a _thing_ , but he doesn’t want Red to leave either. Well, not right now. Maybe later, when he gets annoying. “Don’t be a fucking martyr.”

Red settles back against the pillows with a smug little grin. “Well, Catholic, you know. I gotta.”

Yeah, already getting annoying. “Thought you’d be the type to settle with a nice, sweet lady.”

Murdock laughs. “Wow, that’s been Foggy’s wish since we met. He says I always go after trouble, and that in the end he suffers.”

“Yeah?”

“He’s been patient. I want,” he says slowly, “I want to be known, all of me, and to know in return. I want to be enough, even if I have to work at it sometimes and need to be told to do better. Foggy claims I’ve got more baggage than a plane hold and he’s not wrong, but I’m managing it, most of the time.” He drinks some coffee, sets the mug on the bedside table. “I want to share breakfast and rant about the worst coffee I’ve ever had and also brag about that time I knocked out two guys with one kick, you know? But I also want to be relied on. I want to be there.”

“You have a savior complex, is what you have.”

“What do _you_ want?”

“I don’t have expectations.” Red elbows him and almost makes him spill his coffee, the asshole. “I don’t want anyone to expect anything from me.”

“Well, too bad; I’m definitely going to have expectations after last night.”

Frank stares. “Making assumptions here, Red.”

“Remember, Frank, you can’t lie to me.”

“Fuck you.”

“Finish your coffee first, you’ll be less grumpy.”

“I’m not grumpy.” Frank drains his mug and sets it on the floor next to the plates. “You just talk too much.”

“You know I’m a lawy…”

There's an easy way to shut him up, after all. Frank’s not a fan of speaking for nothing when there are other, better options.

**Author's Note:**

> In case you're wondering: yes, the app's icon is a bone :D


End file.
